


Happy Ending

by WithYouTillTheEndOfTheShield



Series: Stay Frosty [3]
Category: Alien Series, Aliens (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithYouTillTheEndOfTheShield/pseuds/WithYouTillTheEndOfTheShield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both want a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Ending

She sees him around sometimes. She works at a shitty dive bar on the Gateway Station, and it's a temporary fixture she'll soon be out of. That's what she's been telling herself for the past year, at least. She left earth thinking she was going on this big adventure, and didn't get further than two planets away before she ran out of money and had to stop on Gateway. And that's when she found out just how hard it is to get _off_ Gateway. Most of the girls who she worked with when she first got a job on the Station have managed to bribe or fuck their way off and onto a cargo ship somewhere else, meanwhile she's barely making enough to keep rent on her shitty excuse for a room, and she's still got enough dignity left to stay above sexual favours. That being said, she isn't sure how long she's going to be able to stay on this god-forsaken Station without going crazy. She misses air that hasn't gone through forty different filtering systems to get to her. She misses fresh air. She misses beaches, and trees, and wildlife. She misses sunshine.

She doesn't even know his name, but she decides very early on that she likes him. Likes the way he doesn't get beer over himself as he leans over the bar to flirt with some girl. Likes how he stopped that thug from hitting on Jenna, threw his raggedy ass out of the bar before calmly returning to his seat. Likes how he thanks her properly when she brings his drinks over. Likes how he tips generously, an uncommon trait for a Marine.

She calls him 'The Corporal', tells herself that one day she'll actually work up the courage to ask for his name. He's good looking, a fact that she can't help but notice when he asks her for a round of beers. He makes light conversation while she works, that open, friendly smile on his face. She likes his voice, likes how calm and soft it is, with that southern drawl that's fading out as the human race disperses across the universe. He tells jokes as she gets the last few beers, and they're appalling but she can't help but laugh anyway. He winks as he thanks her and takes the drinks, and as his mouth twitches at the corners into that smirk, with that hint of arrogance, she can feel her pulse jump everywhere - in her neck and her wrists and the insides of her elbows.

There's a very long period where she doesn't see him, and she finds herself looking for him every time the door opens to the bar. As the months go on without seeing him come through the door she gets nervous, realises that if he'd died out on an operation she'd never even know. And when he finally does appear, she almost doesn't recognise him.

She knows straight away that there's been an accident. Something's gone wrong on one of his missions, and he's been badly hurt. His movements are slower than they used to be, not as fluid or graceful. He limps, just a little, dragging his left leg ever so slightly slower than his right. His left hand is tucked into the pocket of his jacket, and he keeps his head bowed as he gets to the bar. She only recognises him because of that jacket, the same crappy old thing he's always worn. She swallows hard and speaks. "Corporal?"

His head flicks up instinctively. He's been battle trained, he should stand to attention when addressed. No-one's called him Corporal in months anyway, not since LV-426. Not since he was dishonourably discharged. They all were. He recognises the woman in front of him. She's served him here before. He also recognises the look she's giving him. He sees it in everyone who looks at him now. Repulsion, and pity. The doctors have done an amazing job on his facial reconstruction, they've shown him figures of what he'll look like in a year's time, and honestly it's not that far off what he looked like before hand, but for now... For now he's scarred and disfigured, and he can't see properly out of one eye. The skin grafts that are there so far are waxy, unrealistic. There are no nerve endings on that side of his face any more, something he was glad of when he first woke up. But now he hates it, hates how he can't feel touch to his left side. The scarring continues down his neck, across his chest, and a bit on his arm. But it's worst on his face. Clothes cover the other scars, but these marks can't be hidden, not until the reconstruction is completed. "Hi."

She swallows hard, taking in the scars, processing. "You want a beer?"

He nods, doesn't speak, just accepts the bottle when she hands it to him. Not even a thank you. She moves off to serve a few other customers, but it's late on a Wednesday night, and there's little to do except offer refills. He accepts every drink she gives him, and as the alcohol washes through him he loosens up a little, starts talking a little more. And surprisingly, she listens.

He tells her his name, tells him about the colony planet, tells her about the Alien. Tells her that a lot of his men died out there, that some suffered a worse fate. Describes the Aliens, the facehuggers, tells her about Burke's betrayal. He expects her to recoil, ask him to stop when he gets to talking about the Hive, and about how they impregnate people. She doesn't.

He tells her about their escape, about Vasquez and Gorman sacrificing themselves, about losing Newt. He tells her about how he got his injuries, about the acid blood. She's looking at his scars, but he doesn't see any of the shock any more, doesn't even see that pity that he hates so much. Just sees someone who's glad he even made it out alive.

The only time she leaves him and asks him to stop is so she can serve another customer, but she's back fast enough. She asks him to tell her about how they escaped the planet, about how they managed to get back. She's actually interested, he realises. She actually wants to hear his story. When he's finished he drinks, he drinks lots. He slams his bottle down on the bar, and goes back to talking about his scars. He talks about waking up in the hospital, and he can hear the self-disgust in his voice like it's venom when he talks about his first couple of days. He talks about the pain, about the first operation and the first skin graft. He tells her about how long it's going to be before he looks normal again. He's drunk and he knows it. But that's better than being stone cold sober and thinking about all of this. Or is it? Everything's too hazy to tell right now. All he knows for sure is that everything that's been weighing on him, preying on his mind in the months since LV-426 has just come pouring out. She's heard his soul, his sob story. And she's still watching him with those patient eyes.

"It's late." She says finally. "I've got to close up."

He tries to stand, but it's been a long time since he's drunk this heavily, and he's not used to the effects any more. He sways, grips the bar for support, and she calls out to him. "Dwayne, sit down. I'll help you back to your room. I don't want you stumbling into some military cargo ship and getting shot for trespassing."

He chuckles at that and sits back down, resting the un-scarred side of his face on the bar and listening to her moving around, turning off lights and shutting off music. Eventually he feels her hands helping him up, and he lets her guide him out. He doesn't remember a lot after that, but then he's in his room, somehow managing to direct her, and she's helping him lay down, taking off his shoes and easing him out of his jacket. He tries to resist, something at the back of his head trying to tell him not to let her take it off. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't want her to remove his jacket. She doesn't give up, and eventually gets one of his arms out, and he remembers why he wanted the jacket to stay on. He looks down and remembers just how scarred his forearm and hand are. It's worse than his face - that was the priority when he was brought back. Everything else is going to come after they finish his face. But for now it's this mess of nerveless flesh. He can barely even feel it when she places her hand over his.

She finishes getting him out of his jacket, tosses it to one side, and checks that he's okay. Her face is so close to his, and after the night he's had he knows there's something different about her. Most girls he met before would be interested in him - back then he had a handsome face and two good arms, with a surprising lack of scars. And he had a uniform too, they liked that. Now, he's a shell of what he used to be and she's _still_ interested. He thinks back to all the times he saw her before, behind the bar serving him drinks, and remembers how much he wanted to kiss her back then. Thinks about how much he still wants to kiss her.

She doesn't back up when he presses his lips to hers, oddly lucid for the first time that night. In fact, she tentatively slides her fingers into his hair, moving closer to him on the bed. He sits up, pulling her so she's practically in his lap, loving the warmth that radiates from her body. It's been so long since he's had this kind of contact, this intimacy.

He feels her hands underneath his shirt, on his stomach, slowly lifting it up, and he tenses. If there's going to be something that drives her away, this is going to be it. She senses his hesitation, and asks for some kind of confirmation that this is what he wants. "Dwayne? Are you sure? We can stop."

He shakes his head, and the shirt comes off. He closes his eyes as the fabric goes over his head, waits for the inevitable. There's a pause, and slowly he opens his eyes. She's looking at the scar tissue, a line has appeared between her eyebrows. "Does it hurt?"

He shakes his head, tells her he can barely feel anything there any more. Suddenly nervous, she reaches out and places her palm flat against the scarred flesh, her fingers splayed out across it. And he can feel it, for the first time. He can feel her touch. She's overloading his numbed senses, making his body react in ways he never thought it would do again. And he wants more.

She sinks into the kiss gladly, cupping both sides of his face as he moves closer to her again.

 

Hicks rolls over in bed. She's not there, which is odd. Normally it's him having the nightmare about a facehugger, and retreating to the study to sit alone, or leaving to go for a run. She usually sleeps straight through the night.

He gets out of bed, rubs sleep from his eyes as he pads across the bedroom to search for her. She's not in the bathroom, but when he passes by and looks in through the open door he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, and smiles, appreciating the finished skin graft. He looks almost completely normal again, except for the glass eye to replace his damaged left one. They offered a bionic eye, which he declined. This was good enough.

Even the scars on his arms and chest aren't as bad. Sure, they're more noticeable than his face, but he can stand to look at them now. He hears a noise from downstairs, distracting him. Slowly, he takes the stairs, following the noise to the kitchen.

Her back is to him, and she's cracking eggs into a bowl. He comes up behind her, resting his head in the crook of her neck and hugging her. "Bad dream?"

"It's nothing."

He kisses her neck. She never even went to the planet, but she gets nightmares sometimes all the same. They aren't as bad as his, don't leave her shaking in a cold sweat and on edge for a good couple of days, but they shake her all the same. Whereas he deals with his now infrequent nightmares by locking himself away or running it off, she bakes. It's a nervous habit, and one he recognised early on. She baked before some of his bigger operations, baked the night before he went back to work, baked the night before they managed to get on the cargo ship back to earth (he was glad to get her off that god-forsaken Station). He knows her, knows she's nervous about something. And as there's nothing big coming up for either of them, he assumes it's a nightmare.

"Tell me?"

She turns to face him, and shakes her head, a small smile on her lips. "It's nothing. I'm fine now."

He searches her face for some sign that she's lying, some sign that she's actually terrified, but, finding none, he allows her to go back to baking. "Want me to leave you alone?"

"No, you can stay." She glances back at him, her expression teasing. "If you're quiet."

He chuckles, finds a seat at the kitchen table, and watches her. His right hand traces the scarred tissue of his left absently, and a smile spreads across his face. He got his happy ending. They both did.


End file.
